


Busman's Holiday

by Heisey



Category: Blind Justice (TV)
Genre: Blindness, Coronado, Encinitas, F/M, Hotel Del Coronado, Hotel Del Coronado ghost, San Diego, Surfing, Swami's Beach, domestic abuse, homicide investigation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 19:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heisey/pseuds/Heisey
Summary: Jim accompanies Christie on a business trip to San Diego, where they stay at the historic Hotel Del Coronado, and Jim gets caught up in a case with surprising parallels to a century-old mystery, complete with ghost.





	Busman's Holiday

“Welcome to ‘sunny San Diego’,” Christie muttered sarcastically as she, Jim and Hank walked out of the terminal at Lindbergh Field. Jim turned toward her, tilting his head quizzically.

Before Christie could explain, the woman standing on the other side of her spoke up. “Is this your first visit to San Diego?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s the ‘June gloom.’ It’s our normal weather this time of year. If you want to see the sun, you’ll have to go inland.”

“Oh,” Christie said as they crossed to the traffic island to catch the shuttle to the Hotel Del Coronado. “Not exactly beach weather, is it?”

“Sorry, no,” the woman replied with a smile, then headed for the parking lot.

Christie and Jim caught the hotel shuttle, which headed south on the freeway through downtown San Diego, toward the Coronado bridge. “What are you thinking of doing tomorrow?” Christie asked Jim. She was pleasantly surprised when he offered to accompany her on this trip, but at the same time she was a little concerned. This was a business trip for her. She would be involved in seminars and meetings during the day, and she was worried Jim might be bored on his own, since sightseeing wasn’t a great option.

“I have an idea,” Jim told her, grinning, “but I need to check it out with the people at the hotel. I’ll let you know.”

“All right,” she said with a laugh, “I get it, you want to keep me guessing.” She sat back in her seat and looked out the window as they crossed the soaring bridge over San Diego Bay and descended to Coronado Island. She gasped involuntarily as the hotel came into view – a huge Victorian structure, painted a dazzling white, with red peaked roofs and turrets and the Pacific Ocean in the background. “Wow,” she whispered.

“What?” Jim asked.

“We’re at the hotel. It’s – amazing. I’m not sure I can describe it.”

“Give it your best shot,” Jim encouraged her. She did her best to describe their surroundings as the van pulled up to the hotel entrance, and they got out. As they stepped out of the van, a bellman approached Jim.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, reaching for Jim’s arm.

Jim pulled his arm away. “No, thanks,” he said, “just give us a hand with the bags, OK?”

“Yes, sir.” The bellman put their bags on his cart and followed Christie, Jim and Hank inside.

* * * * *

After breakfast the next morning, Jim and Christie went their separate ways – Christie to her first meeting, and Jim to the concierge’s desk. “Mr. Dunbar,” the concierge said when she saw him and Hank approaching, “I was just about to call you.”

“Were you able to line up something?”

“Well, as I explained yesterday, the hotel offers surfing lessons, but I wasn’t sure if our instructors had any experience teaching blind people. I’m sorry to say they don’t – ”

Jim interrupted her. “No need to apologize. Thanks, anyway.” He turned to leave.

“Not so fast,” she said. “One of our instructors put me in touch with a friend of his from OMBAC – ”

“Ahm-back?” Jim asked.

“O-M-B-A-C,” the concierge explained, “The Old Mission Beach Athletic Club. They’re best known for putting on the annual ‘Over the Line’ tournament –” she explained, slightly emphasizing the word “over.”

“Over the Line?” Jim interrupted her again, feeling culture shock beginning to set in.

“It’s a kind of beach softball – it’s a San Diego thing, invented here – but they also do a lot of work with other organizations, making beach sports accessible for the disabled. Anyway, as I was saying, I talked to our instructor’s friend from OMBAC, and he put me in touch with a buddy of his, who’s a member of Swami’s Surf Club. One of their projects is teaching blind people how to surf. If you still want to have a surfing lesson, he can be here in an hour.”

Feeling slightly shell-shocked, Jim simply nodded.

“OK, then,” the concierge said, “he’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour. His name’s Tom Flaherty.”

“Thank you,” Jim said.

* * * * *

“Jim Dunbar?” a man’s voice came from his right.

Jim turned toward it. “Good guess,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand.

“Tom Flaherty,” the man responded as he shook Jim’s hand. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Hank.”

“Hi, Hank. Good to meet both of you. Shall we get going?”

Jim nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

“I’m in the parking lot out front. You guys can follow me?”

“Sure.”

Once Tom’s SUV was headed along Orange Avenue, back toward the bridge, he looked over at Jim in the passenger seat and asked, “You ever surf before?”

Jim shook his head. “No, surfing’s not real big in Brooklyn.”

“But you have experience with ocean swimming, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t been to the beach for a while – not since I lost my sight.”

“When was that?” Tom asked.

“Almost two years ago.”

“How’d it happen?” Tom asked, then added, “ – if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I got shot, during a bank robbery.”

“Oh, you were a banker?”

“No,” Jim replied, shaking his head, “a cop. Still am.”

“You’re shitting me,” Tom said, “ you’re a cop? But you’re – ” he broke off in confusion.

Jim finished the sentence for him. “ – blind. Yeah, I know.” He grinned.

“And you went back to work as a cop? That must be a hell of a story.”

“Well, let’s just say I persuaded the Department to give me a chance to prove I can still do the job,” Jim told him, then changed the subject. “So where are we going?”

“I thought we’d go to Swami’s,” Tom replied. “A buddy of mine said they were getting some fun sets there earlier this morning – ”

Feeling culture shock kick in again, Jim asked, “Swami’s?”

“Yeah. It’s a beach in Encinitas, about 25 miles north of here. I live nearby, in Leucadia, so it’s kind of my home beach, you might say.”

“Why’s it called ‘Swami’s’?”

“It’s near the ‘Self-Realization Fellowship’ – a retreat, I guess you’d call it, founded by an Indian swami.”

“Oh. Where are we now?”

“On the freeway, just north of downtown. We’ll be there in about a half hour, maybe less if the traffic cooperates.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were walking toward the beach, dressed in wet suits and carrying their boards. Tom had insisted on Jim wearing his spare wet suit – fortunately, they were about the same size. “This is the big daddy – the Pacific Ocean,” he told Jim, “not your puny Atlantic. The water never really gets warm here. Trust me, you need the suit.”

When they reached the beach, Jim turned his face upward. “Is that the sun I feel?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Tom confirmed.

“No ‘June gloom,’ huh?”

“It burned off early today. You ready to start?”

“Sure. Hank, stay.”

“Hold on, Jim,” Tom told him. “I don’t think you should leave him just sitting on the beach here. Let’s take him over to the lifeguard tower. They can keep an eye on him, and he can wait in the shade.”

“OK,” Jim agreed. He followed Tom to the lifeguard station and ordered Hank to stay there, then headed for the water.

Following Tom’s voice and instructions, Jim passed through the breakers, got on the surfboard, and paddled out, away from shore. The next couple of hours passed quickly, alternating between exhilaration when he caught and rode a wave, propelled along by its raw energy, and moments of sheer terror when he – inevitably – wiped out, sometimes spectacularly. Through it all, Tom’s voice directed and encouraged him. Even though Jim never succeeded in standing up on the board for very long before wiping out, Tom assured him he’d done better in his first lesson than most sighted beginners. At the end of the day, Jim returned to Coronado tired and sandy, but optimistic that he might actually be able to call himself a surfer some day.

* * * * *

“I’m going to take Hank out,” Jim told Christie as she was getting ready for bed.

“Don’t be long,” she told him, “it’s almost midnight. My surfer dude needs his sleep,” she added with a smile, rubbing his back.

“OK,” Jim told her, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Jim and Hank were about halfway between the hotel and the beach when Hank suddenly stopped. Jim ordered him forward, but the German Shepherd refused to budge. Knowing Hank would not stop like that without a good reason, Jim asked him, “What’s the matter, boy?” Hank whimpered in response. Jim pulled out his cane and unfolded it, then carefully probed in front of him. The cane hit something soft, about three feet away. Jim examined it with the cane. Its size and shape were suspiciously like a person. “Hello?” he called, but there was no answer. He fell to his knees next to the figure and ran his hands over it. He found the chest, but there was no up-and-down movement of breathing. He felt for the carotid, but couldn’t detect a pulse. He concluded the person must be a woman, because she had breasts and long hair. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed “911.”

When the operator answered, he said, “My name is Jim Dunbar, I’m a police officer from New York City. I’ve found a woman on the walkway at the Hotel Del Coronado, between the hotel and the beach. She’s not breathing, and I can’t find a pulse.”

“OK,” the operator instructed him, “officers are on the way. Stay where you are, and stay on the line.”

“I know what to do,” Jim assured her, “but I need to do CPR, just in case. I’m putting the phone down.”

“OK,” the operator told him, “but don’t hang up.”

Jim started the routine of chest compressions, in spite of his feeling his efforts would be futile. After a minute, he stopped and checked for breathing and a pulse. Nothing. He continued CPR until he heard footsteps approaching.

“You the one who called?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes,” Jim replied.

“Stand up slowly,” the officer ordered him. Jim complied, careful to keep both hands in sight.

The officer noticed the white cane next to the motionless woman on the ground, and Hank, in harness, sitting nearby. He did a double-take. “Your name’s Dunbar?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Jim confirmed.

“You got any ID?”

“Yeah, in my pocket,” Jim told him, but didn’t reach for it.

“Let me see it.”

Jim pulled out his badge and NYPD ID and showed them to the officer.

“You’re a cop?” the officer asked in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how it is in New York,” the officer began sarcastically, “but here in California, it’s a crime to impersonate a police officer.”

“It is in New York, too,” Jim assured him. “But do you really think I’d claim to be a cop if I wasn’t? It’s not like anyone would believe me, you know,” he added.

“You’ve got a point,” the officer conceded, “but you need to come back to the station with me. The detectives can take your statement and sort this out.”

“Fine,” Jim said.

More footsteps approached. “EMTs,” the officer told him. “Step aside, please.” He took Jim by the arm and pulled him aside. Jim considered protesting but thought better of it. The officer radioed for back-up, then instructed his partner, who had been silent up to that point, to secure the scene. He escorted Jim and Hank to his patrol car and drove them to the police station a few blocks away.

* * * * *

Detective Jack Reynolds strode into the interview room where Jim was waiting, sitting at the table. “Mr. – Dunbar, is it? I’m Detective Reynolds,” he said.

“Jim Dunbar,” Jim said, extending his hand. Reynolds didn’t take it. Instead, he sat at the table across from Jim, studying him with a mixture of interest and skepticism. A heavyset man in his late fifties, Reynolds was the Coronado PD’s senior detective. After thirty years on the job, he thought he’d seen everything, but a blind man claiming to be a cop was a new one.

“You don’t really expect us to believe you’re a cop, do you?” Reynolds asked.

“No,” Jim replied mildly, “I expect you to check it out.”

“Oh, we will,” Reynolds told him scornfully. “What did you say you did for the NYPD?”

“I didn’t say,” Jim answered, careful to keep his voice even, “but I’m a homicide detective at the 8th Precinct.”

Reynolds nodded to his partner, Dave Flores, watching on the other side of the one-way mirror, then turned to Jim. “Sit tight,” he ordered. “I’ll be back.”

Jim nodded. “OK.”

Outside the interview room, Flores stopped Reynolds. “You know, Jack, the guy could be legit. I remember hearing about a detective in New York who got blinded in a shoot-out and went back on the job about a year ago. What if he’s that guy?”

“Just check it out,” Reynolds directed him impatiently.

Fifteen minutes later, Reynolds returned to the interview room. “We just talked to your boss – a Lieutenant Fisk,” he told Jim. “He wasn’t real happy that we woke him up at 3:30 in the morning” – Reynolds smiled at Jim’s pained expression – “but he vouched for you. Welcome to Coronado, Detective Dunbar.”

“Thanks.”

Reynolds continued, “The lieutenant suggested if you wanted to take a busman’s holiday, we should take you up on that.”

“How can I help?” Jim asked.

“Let’s get your statement first.”

“Sure.”

Reynolds spent the next half hour taking Jim meticulously through his actions and movements during the evening, up to the point where he found the victim.

“You ever see her before?” Reynolds asked.

Jim resisted the temptation to smile. “Not as far as I know.”

“Shit,” Reynolds muttered, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Jim assured him.

Flores opened the door of the interview room and stuck his head in. “Jack,” he said, “we got a lady out at the front desk, insisting we have to take a missing person report on her husband. She says her name’s Christie Dunbar.”

Jim turned pale. “Oh, no,” he groaned, “I’m a dead man.”

“You better bring her in,” Reynolds told his partner.

Christie burst through the door and rushed to Jim’s side. “Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

Reynolds spoke up before Jim could answer. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunbar, your husband was being held incommunicado by the Coronado Police Department.”

Jim silently thanked Reynolds, then spoke to Christie. “I found a DOA,” he explained, “when I was walking Hank.”

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assured her.

“I think we’re done here,” Reynolds told Jim. “You and your wife have had a long day, you should get some sleep. You’re staying at the Hotel Del, right?”

“Yes,” Christie confirmed.

“I’ll have an officer drive you back.”

“Thanks,” Jim said.

“If you want to take that busman’s holiday,” Reynolds continued, “give me a call in the morning.” He handed a business card to Christie. “You can show us how they close cases in New York.”

Jim heard the smile in Reynolds’ voice and responded in kind. “And you can show me how they do it in Coronado.” He grasped Hank’s harness and followed Christie out of the room.

* * * * *

“You’re going to do that busman’s holiday thing, aren’t you?” Christie asked the next morning at breakfast.

“Yes, I am,” Jim replied.

“But this was supposed to be a vacation for you,” she protested.

“I know – but I really don’t have anything planned for today. Tom has other commitments, so he can’t give me another surfing lesson.”

“You could go to the zoo,” Christie suggested.

“And what – smell the animals?” Jim asked, grinning. “No, thanks.”

“OK, point taken,” Christie conceded. “Just don’t do anything foolish, promise me.”

“I promise,” Jim assured her solemnly.

* * * * *

“Detective Dunbar,” Reynolds greeted Jim as he and Hank walked into the Coronado detectives’ squad room.

“Good morning,” Jim answered. “And it’s ‘Jim’ – please.”

“We’ve got a spare desk, over here,” Flores spoke up, walking toward Jim and reaching for his arm.

“That’s OK,” Jim told him, “just tell me where it is, and Hank and I will get there.”

“On your right, about ten feet ahead.”

When Jim was seated at the desk, Reynolds said, “We should probably get the ground rules clear here.”

“OK,” Jim agreed.

“This is all highly unofficial, of course. You don’t have any legal authority in this jurisdiction. Technically, you’re just another civilian helping us with our investigation.”

“Understood.”

“But this is shaping up to be a tough case, and we can always use some new ideas in a case like this. You know, someone who can look at things – uh, from a different perspective,” Reynolds concluded awkwardly.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Dave’ll get you up to speed, then we’ll see where we go from there.”

“The victim was a guest at the Del,” Flores began. “She checked in under the name of ‘Kate Morgan’ a couple of days ago, paid cash in advance for a five-day stay. ‘Kate Morgan’ wasn’t her real name, of course – ”

“Why do you say that?” Jim asked.

“‘Kate Morgan’ is the Hotel Del’s resident ghost,” Flores explained. Noticing Jim’s puzzled expression, he continued, “She checked in to the hotel under an assumed name in November 1892, saying she was going to meet her husband there. Four days later, she was found dead on the stairs leading to the beach. Her death was ruled a suicide, but today some people believe she was murdered by her estranged husband. Over the years, people have reported unusual occurrences in the room where she stayed, so it’s become known as the Del’s ‘haunted room’.”

“That’s not all,” Reynolds added. “Our lady specifically asked for room 3312, which was Kate Morgan’s room. The desk clerk is new on the job and didn’t think there was anything unusual about it.”

Flores summed up, “So the one thing we know about our victim is that she was a nut case.”

At mid-morning, the detectives took a coffee break. Reynolds followed Jim into the break room, closing the door behind them. “You know, Jim,” he began, “I owe you an apology for – well, uh, for being such a hardass last night.”

“Thanks,” Jim told him, “but there’s no need to apologize – ”

Reynolds cut him off. “Yes, there is. After you left last night, Dave briefed me on everything your lieutenant told him, and I looked into you a little. That was a hell of a thing you did at that armored car robbery.”

Jim turned away to hide his embarrassment.

Flores knocked on the door, then opened it. “We just got the preliminary report from the ME,” he said.

“Let’s get back to work, then,” Reynolds replied. He headed back to the squad room, followed by Jim.

“What’ve you got?” Reynolds asked.

“Preliminary cause of death was a single GSW to the head, small caliber. From the location and angle, the ME can’t say conclusively whether it was self-inflicted or not. He also said this lady had a lot of old, healed injuries – broken ribs, broken jaw, a broken arm. Some of them looked like they hadn’t been properly treated.”

“So she was a domestic abuse victim?” Jim asked.

“That’s what the ME’s thinking,” Flores confirmed.

Jim fell silent, resting his chin on his folded hands. After a few minutes, Reynolds spoke up. “Jim?” he asked. When Jim didn’t respond, he asked again, “Jim?”

Jim raised his head. “Sorry,” he said, looking sheepish.

“Where were you?”

“Just – thinking.”

“You come up with anything?” Flores asked.

“I don’t know. I was just thinking – what if our DOA wasn’t a nut case? What if she was trying to tell us something?”

“Tell us what?” Reynolds asked skeptically.

“She obviously knew about the Kate Morgan case – she used the name and asked for the ‘haunted’ room. What if she was in danger from someone and was trying to tell us something by using the Kate Morgan story?”

“Sounds pretty far-fetched to me,” Reynolds commented.

“C’mon, humor me,” Jim said, grinning. “What else can you tell me about Kate Morgan?”

“She was a small-time con artist, worked the trains with her husband. The story has it that she wanted to get out of the game, but her husband didn’t. She took a train down from Los Angeles and came to the Del to try to get away from him. The theory is that she met her husband at the hotel the night she died, they argued, and he killed her. According to the murder theory, the physical evidence isn’t consistent with suicide. And even though Kate had a gun, the bullet that killed her wasn’t the same caliber as her gun.”

“Maybe we should look for similarities between our victim and Kate Morgan,” Jim suggested. “If the ME’s right and she was abused, maybe she was in danger from the man in her life – like Kate Morgan was.”

“I don’t know, Jim. . . ,” Reynolds began.

“It’s your case,” Jim told him, “but what else do we have, so far?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We really need an ID on our victim. Maybe we could start by looking at scammers out of LA, see if any are missing. I know it’s a long shot, but – ”

“OK,” Reynolds agreed.

A couple of unproductive hours later, the detectives were getting discouraged, and even Jim was starting to have second thoughts about his theory. The phone rang, and Reynolds answered it. “Yeah?” After grunting “yeah” a couple more times, he said, “thanks” and hung up. “We got an ID on our victim,” he told Jim and Flores. “Her name’s Patricia Kimball, aka ‘Patsy.’ The ME ID’d her from her fingerprints. Her prints were on file because – get this – she has a minor record as a con artist.” He glanced over at Jim, who was careful not to look smug.

“She married?” Flores asked.

“Yeah,” Reynolds replied, “her husband’s Brian Kimball – another con artist.”

“Not to mention an abuser,” Jim added.

“Yeah,” Reynolds agreed. “Looks like they were a husband-and-wife team. Now all we have to do is find him. Let’s get his picture out there.”

* * * * *

Reynolds’ cell phone rang as he, Jim, and Flores were finishing lunch at what Reynolds called “the best Mexican joint on Coronado.” He listened for a moment, then muttered, “Got it,” and closed his phone. “A patrol unit got a hit on Kimball’s picture at a motel on Glorietta Bay,” he said. “They’re sitting on it in case he shows. Let’s head back.”

They settled the check and headed back to the Coronado PD headquarters. As they walked in, the desk sergeant stopped them. “Kimball just showed up at his motel,” he told them.

“We’re on our way,” Reynolds said, turning toward the door. When Jim turned to follow, Reynolds stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Sorry, Jim,” he said, lowering his voice, “but like I said this morning, you’re a civilian here. Besides, your boss warned us about you, and he made Dave promise to send you back to New York in one piece.”

Jim threw up his hands in surrender. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll man the phones while you’re gone.”

“Good,” Reynolds answered as he and Flores headed for their car. When they returned an hour later, they had Kimball in custody. He had given up without a fight.

“He say anything?” Jim asked.

“ _Nada_ , he’s a clam,” Flores told him, “maybe he’ll open up after a few hours in a holding cell.”

“A couple reports came in while you were gone – two more hits on Kimball’s photo, both from the Del,” Jim told them. “The bartender on the deck overlooking the beach remembers him being there for several hours on the day Patsy was killed. He was sitting by himself, just waiting, making his drinks last. The bartender said the guy kind of ‘creeped him out.’ A desk clerk also remembered him asking for Patsy – by her real name – earlier that day, but since she registered under a different name, he told Kimball she wasn’t a registered guest.”

“Sounds like he was stalking her,” Reynolds commented.

“Yeah,” Jim agreed. “Too bad he found her.”

Reynolds nodded, forgetting Jim couldn’t see it. After a moment, he said, “Jim, didn’t you say you had an early flight tomorrow morning?”

“That’s right.”

“Why don’t you take off now? We’ve got things under control here, and you should spend some time with that pretty wife of yours. You’re supposed to be on vacation, after all.”

“OK,” Jim said, “I guess my busman’s holiday is over, huh?”

“Don’t worry,” Reynolds assured him, “you can always come back. You’re welcome here anytime.”

“I have to come back,” Jim said, grinning, “I haven’t finished my surfing lessons.”

Reynolds turned serious. “I just want to say, Jim – you’ve, uh, given me a lot to think about – I never would have believed . . . .”

“Yeah, me neither,” Flores chimed in.

Jim shook hands with each of them in turn, then he and Hank walked out of the squad room. “See you later, guys,” he said with a wave of his hand.

* * * * *

On their last evening in Coronado, Christie and Jim ventured out of the hotel and had dinner at a tropical-themed restaurant at the old San Diego-Coronado ferry landing. They sat outside on the deck, so Christie could enjoy the view of the San Diego skyline across the bay. After dinner, they walked hand in hand along the bayfront walk.

“I think you enjoyed your busman’s holiday,” she said.

“I did,” he agreed, then added, “but, you know, if I hadn’t found that DOA, you might have ended up married to a surf bum.” He grinned.

“Oh, I don’t think there was ever much danger of that.”

Jim stopped, suddenly serious. “You’re right about that,” he said. “I just – I need to work, I guess, especially since. . . .”

“I know,” Christie told him quietly, “I know.” She pulled him toward her, and they kissed. “What do you say we get a room, surfer dude?”

“You read my mind,” he said with a smile, then kissed her again.

 

 

 


End file.
